#poor stiles nearly has a heart attack when the wolf comes over for pets

[imagine-sterek]

Stiles running in the preserve and Derek’s dog (which is actually just a real wolf) is secretly following him around. Until finally it lets its self be known to stiles when he stops for a water break. Stiles freaks out but then the wolf goes and starts growing cause there’s a bear about to approach stiles and it’s also been following him around. The wolf just wanted to keep stiles safe, Derek’s trained it to scared away bears and mountain lions after a couple people have been attacked. After it scared the bear away it goes and starts asking stiles for pets and makes stiles follow him to Derek’s cabin cause apparently Derek also trained it to find lost people, but lately it’s been bringing people who aren’t even lost to Derek just cause the wolf like them (half the time they have a sandwich in their bag). This is the first time Derek liked the person it brought back.

[1989dreamer]

Cover and Chapter 1 of: Looking for a Place to Call Home

Links at bottom of page.

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The raccoon has been dead for the better part of a week, but it’s food. Derek crunches through the body quickly, forcing it down to settle in his belly. When he’s done eating as much as he can, he pads off the road and into the underbrush.

It is worrisome to him that he didn’t even drag his find away from danger before making himself vulnerable while he ate. It’s even more worrisome that he barely makes it ten feet before he starts vomiting. Okay, apparently week-old raccoon is too much even for a wolf’s digestive system.

Derek manages another ten feet before he collapses, burrowing under a pile of leaves and twigs. He knows if there are hunters in the area, tracking things like him, they will find him. He doesn’t have the energy to haul himself upright, to lay a false trail, or to find a more defensible resting area.

He takes comfort in the fact that he’s nearly home, that he is more likely to be sniffed out by a member of his own pack than to be found by a hunter. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply despite the lingering odor of his sick,

He doesn’t feel safe, hasn’t for three years, but his overtaxed body doesn’t care, and he slips off to sleep quickly. He dreams of raccoons that taste like chicken, each of them taunting him with her voice, telling him just how good of a boy he really is.

Derek wakes up on his back, limbs splayed, his cover disturbed. He pants heavily, still trying to shake his half-dream. Fingers and toes curl as he takes stock of his body. It’s been days since he last shifted, his human form too dangerous to travel as. He’s already seen a few posters with his thirteen-year-old face plastered all over them.

He spends a couple more minutes calming his breathing and making sure his cramping, roiling guts aren’t going to kill him yet. Eventually, he’s sure. There has to be something wrong when he can eat three whole deer off the side of I-5 and not be comatose from too much food.

Once he’s satisfied he’s in full control of his body, and thankfully still alone, he shifts back into his wolf form. Rolling over and standing up is another problem, one he didn’t think he could handle in human form.

He makes it up, shaky and stumbling, tripping over his too-large paws and almost falling every other step. Derek finds a rhythm soon enough—plod three steps, stop to rest for a breath, plod three more steps, rest, rinse, and repeat until his whole body feels numb.

It’s worrisome—“Again, worry, you’ll get gray hairs, Derek, sweetie,” she taunts—that he can’t smell any other wolves. He’s in California—he knows he is, his bones ache with homesickness and the air is soothing it a bit, easing back the tension tight in his muscles. But, he hasn’t come across even another pack. He’d grown up with stories of the trouble-making Teller pack that lived northeast of Hale territory.

Derek has been angling more west than south, but a few spots in the underbrush, yellowed from repeated urination, are too old for him to get a clear scent.

Or, he thinks, heart pounding painfully in his chest, his nose is whacked out, done sniffing mundane trivialities. After all, the only reason he ate the raccoon earlier was because he could smell it.

Derek keeps moving, chewing the fact that he can’t trust his nose at all quickly, like he did the raccoon, praying it doesn’t come back to hurt him more. He is aware that he’s at his limit. He is too tired to protect himself beyond basic measures; hell, he hasn’t even been laying a false trail since he passed through Michigan.

Picking his way through foliage is tougher than he can handle, and after sprawling one too many times from a branch he tried climbing over, he rolls out of the brush and onto the road. The gravel digs into his paws, but he ignores it in favor of pressing on, his path unhindered now. His sense of smell might be diminished but his hearing and sight are just fine…when he can manage to lift his head. Derek knows he’s dying. In either form, his stomach is swollen even when he doesn’t eat. He can barely support himself on four legs, much less two,

He hasn’t started hallucinating yet, but her voice is a constant murmur in his ear and it’s getting harder to ignore it.

Just keep moving, he thinks to himself. His walk isn’t a straight line anymore, his body listing side to side as he weaves all over the road. He barely hears the approaching vehicle over his rough pants, tongue dry and swelled too fat for his mouth. It takes precious seconds for him to realize that the vehicle is coming from behind him, and it takes everything, all of his energy and concentration, to move to the side of the road.

The vehicle passes slowly. Derek stares unseeing, not realizing that it has stopped and is just sitting there. He wavers on his feet, tipping too far forward as he strains to listen for any more motors, but he’s gone deaf now too, ears ringing. He isn’t aware of the ground smashing into his face when he falls: he’s already unconscious.

                                                                                                                        ~ * ~

Deputy Stiles Stilinski has seen a lot of weird and dangerous things in his ten years on the force—many of them related to drunk people; Marie’s Apple Pie Fiasco still ranks a top five—but he’s never seen an emaciated wolf sitting in the middle of a little-used access road. It gets weirder when the wolf stumbles out of his cruiser’s path only to immediately collapse on its face.

Well, he can’t in good conscience leave an endangered animal, especially one that hasn’t been in this state since at least the 1960s, out here to die alone. A wolf deserves more dignity than that.

Stiles sighs. His father is going to really love this story at their weekly lunch. His father always sighs, rubs his face like it physically hurts him, and mutters, “Aw crap, kid.”

It never deters Stiles, his father’s words, because John Stilinski always says, “I’m proud of you, son,” before Stiles goes back to work. Stiles can count on one hand the number of times he didn’t say it, and that is because those are the times Stiles says it first. What? Just because his dad is retired now and raises award-winning roses doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve to have love and pride too.

Stiles sighs, rubs his face (though it doesn’t hurt…yet), and mutters, “Aw crap,” before grabbing his CB radio’s mic.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 5, do you copy?”

“Copy, Unit 5, this is Dispatch. Go ahead.”

“Dispatch, I’m out on Access Road 17, and I’m gonna need Animal Control. I’ve got a severely underweight canine-type. I’ve got a muzzle with me but I don’t wanna hurt her any more than she’s already been.”

“10-4, Unit 5. Animal Control has been contacted, ETA is 15 minutes. Just sit tight, Stiles.”

“God bless, Marie,” he says before cradling his mic.

He tries to stay in the car the whole time. Really, he does. But the poor wolf, conked out by the road where anyone could attack while she’s vulnerable, hurts his heart so much that before he knows it, he’s kneeling next to her head, muzzle dangling from his fingers while he strokes the soft fur around her ears.

The wolf huffs a breath but doesn’t wake. Unusual, Stiles thinks. His great-aunt Sarah used to breed dogs, and when he was a child visiting her, he would sneak up on many of the sleeping pooches. None of them slept through a petting like this wolf is doing. It makes Stiles more concerned for her health.

“Poor baby,” he murmurs, carding through her fur again. “We’ll take care of you, make sure nothing else bad happens to you.”

At his words, the wolf’s eyes spring open, blazing electric blue. Stiles inhales sharply, and the wolf snaps her gaze to him. They stare silently for a long moment before the wolf bows her head and bares her neck.

Submission, Stiles thinks. Angered, he wonders if someone tried (and maybe succeeded) to tame this wild creature. He notices her eyes aren’t blue anymore. Curious.

Of course, when he’s got his hand on the wolf’s neck, leaning down for a better look at her now-hazel eyes, fingers splayed wide to convey no harm meant, Animal Control finally shows up, five minutes late.

Isaac Lahey and V. Boyd, two former classmates of Stiles, saunter up to him, Boyd holding a giant dog crate while Lahey wields a noose on a stick. Under Stiles’ hand, the wolf tenses.

“What the hell, Stilinski?” Lahey demands as both he and Boyd stop a few yards away. Stiles is pretty sure he can hit them with a wad of spit if he tries.

Instead, he does the more mature thing and flips them off. Lahey flips him off in return.

“First,” Boyd says, calmly Stiles thinks until he sees the tic in his eyelid, a sure sign that he’s pissed and someone’s about to get it. Since Stiles is the one he’s looking at, Stiles feels optimistic about being the target of V. Boyd’s wrath. “That is not a dog; that is a wolf. Second, you were told to stay in your vehicle until we arrived.”

“First,” Stiles counters, “I said canine-type. Last I checked, wolves were part of the canine family. And second, I was told to sit tight, not where to sit.” He grins, smug, at Boyd’s annoyed frown.

“You gonna let us do our job or what?” Lahey snaps, and the wolf growls lowly. Stiles pets her until she calms enough to stop.

“Just don’t come at her with the lyncher,” he says.

“Lyncher?” Lahey repeats, looking at his weapon with a hurt expression. “It’s called a catcher-pole.”

“Just put the dog carrier down and I’ll get her in it.” Stiles rolls his eyes when Lahey and Boyd refuse. “Look, you can come at her with the lyncher and maybe get bitten, or you can let someone she obviously trusts get her into the carrier without any injuries.”

Boyd glares and drops the carrier. “Come on, Isaac,” he says. “Let’s go check on that coyote den we found the other day.”

“Should we at least make sure the wolf doesn’t eat him?” Lahey asks. “I really don’t want to miss Stilinski getting a bite taken out of him.” Stiles does not like the thoughtful look Boyd gives Lahey.

“I’m not going to be bitten,” he says. He pets the wolf again, running his hand down her spine, cooing softly when she rumbles under his palm. He doesn’t count the knobs of her spine. “Okay,” he says, one last pat to the wolf’s head, “come on, girl. Let’s get you in the carrier so we can take you somewhere safe.”

The wolf growls at him before huffing, almost sighing, and struggling upright to pad, unsteadily, to the carrier. Stiles opens the door, latching it shut behind her. She drops down almost immediately.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Lahey says, and Stiles doesn’t jump at the suddenness of him popping up by his elbow.

“What?” he grinds out, taking in Lahey’s smug face.

“You, uh, you sure this canine-type’s a little lady?” Lahey sounds like he’s about to burst out laughing. From the carrier, the wolf growls again.

“Sure,” Stiles says, shrugging. “She’s small, more like a female than a male. Even emaciated as she is, a male would be bigger.”

“So, how do you explain her balls?” Lahey doubles over, chortling wildly. Stiles scowls at him, then he looks to Boyd to tell him to control his partner only to find Boyd’s got his hands on his knees laughing silently.

“Fine,” Stiles huffs. :The wolf has balls. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. You gonna help me get him to the vet’s office for a check-up?”

Boyd straightens and nods, serious again. Scary how he can reign in his emotions like that.

“Isaac,” Boyd says, kicking at his partner as he passes him. He double-checks the latch of the carrier. “We’ll have McCall tranq him when we get there. He’ll better know what dose to use.”

Together, Lahey and Boyd get the carrier secured into the back of Animal Control’s van. Before they can drive off, Stiles reaches through the bars of the door, ignoring Boyd’s worried, Stilinski,” and pets the wolf’s muzzle. She—he—whines, nudging at and licking his fingers.

“You’re a good boy,” he says. “I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again. You’re going to love where you’re going—water, food, a warm bed.” The wolf licks his palm and then shuffles away to curl in a ball at the back of the carrier. Stiles wants to cry: there’s a chance the wolf will be deemed too far gone for rehabilitation and will be put down.

“Hey, Stilinski,” Lahey says, clapping his shoulder in comfort, like he knows what Stiles is thinking about, “we’ll take care of him. I promise.”

“Well, let’s go then.” Stiles wipes his eyes (even though they’re dry) and heads to his cruiser. He waits for Boyd to crank the ignition while Lahey closes the back doors of the van from the inside. At least the wolf will have company on the short ride.

He follows the van as it heads for Beacon Hills Vet Clinic near the edge of town.

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Cover created using Microsoft Word® and Paintbox®

Images Used in Cover:

Black Wolf

Animal Control Van

Cora Hale (Adelaide Kane)

Laura Hale (Haley Roe Murphy)

Lydia Martin (Holland Roden)

Derek Hale (Tyler Hoechlin)

Allison Argent (Crystal Reed)

Beacon Hills County Sheriff’s Car

Beacon Hills Animal Clinic

Roscoe

Dr. Alan Deaton (Seth Gilliam)

Scott McCall (Tyler Posey)

Stiles Stilinski (Dylan O’Brien)

Erica Reyes (Gage Golightly)

John Stilinski (Linden Ashby)

Triskelion

Vernon Boyd (Sinqua Walls)

Isaac Lahey (Daniel Sharman)

Kate Argent (Jill Wagner)

MP, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14